


Mea Culpa/Non Mea Culpa (My Fault/Not My Fault)

by Spoopernatural (IShipItAllAndThenSome)



Series: Marvel Model!Verse [1]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: (Maybe; I'm not sure; Bucky thinks not-nice things about himself after losing his arm), Ableism, Apparently that's not a frequently used tag either; come on fandom!, Apparently that's not a frequently used tag; BUCKY IS A TOTAL NERD HOW DARE YOU, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Birthday Bash, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky/Peggy/Steve if you squint, Dorky Romancing, Drunk Driving Has Consequences, F/F, M/M, Model!Bucky, Model!Sam Wilson, Negative Self Talk, Nerd!Bucky, Part of a larger 'verse that I'm currently working on, Peggy Carter Is a Good Bro, Photographer!Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Self Esteem Issues, Trauma-Related Self Esteem Issues, Vague Suicidal Ideation, happy birthday bucky barnes, there is a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 08:06:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3521771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IShipItAllAndThenSome/pseuds/Spoopernatural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They woke up in the hospital in side by side beds, thinking side by side thoughts, feeling side by side guilt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mea Culpa/Non Mea Culpa (My Fault/Not My Fault)

_My fault. My fault. My fault. My fault._  
They woke up in the hospital in side by side beds, thinking side by side thoughts, feeling side by side guilt.  
_My fault. My fault. My fault. My fault._

Steve had been hit first – the drunk driver had come in from an offramp on the drivers' side of the highway and smashed grille-first into Steve's truck – but the truck flipped over onto the passenger side, and Bucky's arm (thrown up to protect his eyes from the flying shards of windshield) was shattered. Pulverized.  
Irreparable.

They'd been visiting their friend Peggy. She'd lived on some of the same military bases as the two of them had when they were kids; she and Steve had wrought all kinds of havoc while Bucky had trailed behind them, charming their way out of trouble and feeling like the luckiest boy in the world.  
Now it was Peggy's turn to visit. She brought them gladioluses – red, white, and blue.  
(Peggy, Bucky, Steve.)

Back in America, Steve finished art school, became a photographer and body painter. He made decent money. He made friends.  
Bucky stayed in their shared apartment in San Francisco, right by the bays. Their favorite Army base growing up had been Fort Lehigh in New Jersey, only a short drive from the beach and the city. Here, Bucky looked out the window through the accordion blinds and scratched the phantom itches just below the stump of his shoulder.

Before – that was how they both saw _it_ ; Before and After – Bucky had been working his way through college. Biochemistry major. He wanted to teach. Steve used him as a model so often that he'd set up an account on Model Monsters. He spent weekends looking pretty on camera and weeknights studying like a fiend.  
After: Bucky dropped out of college. Not officially. He was still payed up to the end of the year, and CalTech still wanted him around.  
But he couldn't face going outside. Couldn't face people _watching_ him, _staring_ at him, lifting both of their hands to cover cruel, laughing mouths.  
He was a freak. He didn't have to let the rest of the world know. It felt better to let them assume he was dead than to let them see he was living like this.

“Hey, Buck,”Steve said, scrawny little arms quaking faintly as he hoisted big paper bags of groceries into their pre-war apartment. “You been outside today? 'S real nice. Finally gettin' warm again.”  
Bucky, curled up in a little ball in the big armchair by the windows, bundled up in black sweats, pale face hidden by dark, lank hair, shook his head.  
“How 'bout we have lunch on the fire escape? I bought fancy cookie dough ice cream.”  
Another head shake.  
Steve's hands twitched with the urge to wrap himself around Bucky, make him feel better. He missed the Bucky from Before. He missed the guy who used to walk like music was playing, who used to flirt with every damn person who crossed his path, who rented random movies from the video store because the titles seemed interesting and saddled them with four-hour-long Finnish rom coms.  
He missed the Bucky he had killed.

Steve was out on a shoot. Some guy named Sam.  
This was the third shoot Steve had done with Sam Wilson, so Bucky grabbed his laptop once he'd left and managed to fumble his way to the guy's profile on Model Monsters.  
He was tall, with a sharp, narrow jaw, warm dark eyes, and that as of late highly sought-after gap between his front teeth. He had a picture of himself from some Froot Of The Loom campaign as his icon, and – yup, sure enough – his smooth, dark skin was flawless. Unmarred. Perfect.  
Bucky slammed Steve's laptop shut and curled up in the armchair by the windows. His left sleeve hung loose and empty.  
After, he felt everything as if through a thick sheet of rubber, as if the impact of any emotion was dulled and weakened as it fought to reach him.  
But the rage, the burning, painful hate he felt for that empty sleeve was as strong and fierce as anything from Before.

“Hey, Buck,”Steve said, approaching him in the bathroom. Bucky's face – Before: clean-shaven, square jaw on display, youthful and alive – was covered in a decent beard, drawn and pale, eyes hollow; his hand was full of shaving cream, and a disposable razor sat on the lip of the sink. “You want some help with that?”  
“No.”  
“Okay. The trimmer's under the sink. Might make things easier.”  
Bucky let out a little puff of breath – toneless, and yet somehow, the most self-loathing sound Steve had ever heard. He shook the palmful of foam into the trash, rinsed his hand off, and pulled the trimmer out.  
“Buck?”  
Bucky didn't turn to look at Steve, but met his eyes in the mirror. His eyes looked like slate-blue glass threaded with mica Before; the eyes that Steve now saw in the mirror were flat, cracked rock.  
“Never mind.”  
Steve closed the door.  
Bucky shaved.

Bucky got the hang of shaving one-handed soon enough. He never went more than a day or two without taking a blade to his chin. It became routine, even to the point that he stopped picturing his hand just _slipping_ , barely deviating from the planned path and still flaying his throat wide open.  
From there, the next step was showering. In the months since they'd gotten out of the hospital, he'd been relying on baby wipes and deodorant to maintain the illusion of cleanliness, hiding his greasy hair under a hood. It took a week, but Bucky grew up around two of the stubbornest people to ever draw breath; he'd picked up a thing or two about perseverance.  
He still wore sweatpants and long-sleeved tops, but he stopped wearing hoodies. His hair hung down around his square jaw, clean and mostly tangle-free.  
Steve came home from a shoot with Aki Kaurismaki's _The Man Without A Past_ and Italian takeout, and something came over his face at the sight of a clean, clean-shaven Bucky. His bright blue eyes got brighter. His wan cheeks warmed. His whole body lifted.  
“W-We haven't seen this one yet,” he said, “and we ain't had Italian in forever. Our old place closed, but I got recommended Martinelli's on Fifth.”  
They sat down in front of their TV, which they'd carried home from outside someone's house when they'd first gotten their apartment – it had a piece of paper on it that said _STILL WORKS FREE IF YOU CAN CARRY IT HOME_ – and ate garlic bread and _pasta all'arrabbiata_ and _linguine gremolata_ and watched a Finnish rom com.

Steve had become accustomed to living in almost complete silence. Bucky had, for the most part, stopped talking After. Steve had tried to fill the silence for the first couple of weeks, but his voice sounded grating and harsh and he hated talking into what felt like empty air, so he stopped filling silence and started just greeting Bucky.  
“Hey, Buck,” became the two most frequently used words in his vocabulary.  
He'd talk for a little about his day – _canned potatoes were on sale at Key Food, can you believe they have canned potatoes now_ or _the greeter at Martinelli's, I think her name is Angie, offered to sneak us a few slices of her Nana's rhubarb pie_ – and then ask the unanswerable question of the ages: _How was your day, Buck?_  
So one night, when he heard these rough, choked sobs – like someone was crying with a foot on their throat – he woke up within seconds and ran into Bucky's room.  
“Buck? Buck! It's okay, you're okay, it's just a dream.”  
He couldn't lift Bucky, even with how skinny he'd gotten After, but he could manage to shake him.  
“Buck, c'mon, wake up for me. C'mon, Buck, please.”  
“Steve... _Steve!_ ”  
“I'm right here, Bucky. I'm okay, I'm right here. Wake up. Just wake up.”  
It took a few moments, but Bucky eventually woke up, gasping, gaunt cheeks glistening with tears. “I'm so sorry, Stevie,” he sobbed. “Stevie, 's my fault. You coulda died, you coulda _died,_ I was distractin' you while you were drivin' on unfamiliar roads an' we got hit an' it's my _fault, my fault!_ ”  
Steve cradled Bucky close, stroking his hair, rocking gently. “Buck, no. _No_. I was the one driving. You got hurt 'cause of me.”  
“Stevie – ”  
“ _No_ , Buck. If it's anyone's fault, it's _mine_ , okay?”  
Bucky just kept shaking his head, clinging to Steve's bony shoulders, crying like each sob was being torn out of him, like someone was reaching into his chest and _squeezing_.  
“I really missed you these past few months, Buck,” Steve said, listening to Bucky's breaths even out as he sank back into sleep.

Peggy came to visit as soon as school ended, and she took the rarely-used subway system to their apartment from the airport, a bouquet of gladioluses tucked into one arm. Her hair was tucked up into a tight bun, and she smelled like bergamot when she hugged them both. Soft red lipstick stains marred their pale cheeks where she kissed them in greeting.  
Their whole apartment got ten degrees warmer when she took off her sensible heels and hopped up on their kitchen countertop, feet swinging.  
“My boys,” she said, fond, rearranging flowers in their vase, “why do you both look as if someone's died?”  
Steve, always more prone to tattling, said, “He thinks the crash was his fault.”  
“Well, _he_ thinks it's _his_ fault,” Bucky retorted, reaching for his other arm to hug himself, settling for grabbing the harsh edge of his ribs.  
“It's neither of your faults, and you're both being rather stupid,” Peggy said, matter-of-fact. “The other driver had a BAC of almost .4! He was massively inebriated, and he shouldn't have been driving, but he was, and he hurt you two. It's _his_ fault, if anyone's, so stop blaming yourselves.”  
“But – ”  
_“But – ”_  
Peggy reached out and flicked both of their foreheads with her sharp, red fingernail. “No. Buts.”  
“Ma'am, yes, ma'am,” they chorused, and it was just like Before, and they were happy.  
They spent the night eating Chinese takeout, Peggy helping Bucky pull his hair back into a ponytail and talking about her interview with the CIA, Steve furtively sketching his two favorite people in the whole world.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve said one night, towelling himself dry.  
“What, punk?” Bucky asked, eyeing him through dark lashes.  
“One of my models backed out on me. Family emergency. Can you cover for him?”  
Bucky went stiff, hackles rising, face suddenly tight and fearful. “That's not funny, Steve.”  
“What?”  
“That's not _fucking_ funny, Steve! I _know_ I'm a freak! You don't gotta rub it in!”  
“Buck, I'm not – ”  
“Just leave me alone! I don't wanna talk to you right now!”  
“Bucky!”  
_“Leave me the fuck alone I don't wanna talk to you I don't wanna talk to anyone leave me alone I don't want you looking at me I don't want anyone looking at me I'm a monster leave me the fuck alone okay?”_  
Bucky slammed his bedroom door so hard the frame cracked.  
Peggy approached his door later, but he wouldn't even let her in.  
“I'm sorry, darling,” she said; both of them felt it.

The shoot was supposed to be a fun thing. Angie, who wanted nothing more than to be an actress, had badgered him for weeks about using her as a model, and he'd finally given in. She was a sweet kid – and wasn't it funny, thinking of a girl taller than him and only a few months younger than him as a kid – and she had one of those faces you just liked looking at, symmetrical and youthful and vibrant.  
Peggy accompanied him to the shoot, which was in the garden at Angie's apartment complex. Angie wore a sweet seafoam green dress, figure-flattering, and natural makeup, and the second she and Peggy laid eyes on each other, the flirting _would not stop_.  
Between data cards, Peggy would appear behind the swing Angie sat on and help smooth out her thick curls, deft fingers touching up her makeup.  
Steve, who normally relished the chance to tease Peggy about her relentlessly chivalrous flirtations, just felt low.  
Angie called out, “Hey! This was supposed to be a partner shoot, right? Can Peggy get in front of the camera, too?”  
“Sure,” Steve replied, clicking away.  
The two women sat on the swing together, curling into each other's space with ease. The pictures were good, lighthearted and playful and appealing without objectification – Peggy whispering in Angie's ear as she pushed the swing, the two girls sitting next to each other in the grass, dancing together in bare feet.  
“You okay, Steve?” Angie asked, standing up with Peggy's help. “You look kinda: _uuuugggghhh_.” She slouched, arms hanging limp at her sides, and pulled a truly outrageous face – somewhere between a snarl and a pissed-off sitcom teenager.  
“I'm okay, Angie.” He detached his camera from the tripod and shuffled through the grass. “Here, take a look.”  
Angie was completely delighted by the pictures, and hugged the both of them tightly, grinning and giddy. “Thanks a million, Steve!”  
She and Peggy exchanged phone numbers while Steve packed up, and as the engine woke up, she called, “See ya Saturday, English!”  
“ _'English',_ huh?” Steve teased, heart not in it.  
“Bucky just needs time,” Peggy said, cutting, as usual, straight through the bullshit. “It's only been seven months.”  
“He thinks he's a freak, Peg. He thinks _I_ think he's a freak. I ain't ever thought of him as anything but perfect.”  
At the next red light, Peggy wrapped Steve up in a warm, tight hug. One of the perks of having friends who were bigger and stronger than you, Steve supposed, was having bear hugs all the time.  
“Just let him know you love him. Incessantly. Eventually, he'll start to believe it.”

The next day, Bucky woke up with Steve gone to drop Peggy off at the CIA's LA headquarters and a Post-It stuck to the threshold of his bedroom door. It bore a sketch of two silhouettes – one short and reedy, one taller and stocky – arms draped over each other's shoulders. In thick black Sharpie, the Post-It read: **I'm with you 'til the end of the line.**  
He got new ones every day, in different places, with different doodles and the same note.  
The one on the instant coffee jar had a drawing of a latte with a heart poured in the foam.  
The one on the Onnellinen Kerta ice cream had a sketch of a heart-shaped sundae bowl filled with ice cream, chunks of something chocolatey, and a big squirt of whipped cream.  
The one in his sock drawer was drawn on a sheet of copier paper, and contained a very dramatic comic strip about mismatched socks finding their mates.  
The one on the bathroom mirror had a cheesy 80's heartthrob guy winking at Bucky and saying _Hello, Studmuffin_.  
He knew they came from Steve. They couldn't have come from anyone else.  
He just didn't know what to do about them.

Steve stayed out of Bucky's way as much as he could.  
(Except for the notes. But those didn't _really_ count, right?)  
He spent every free moment figuring out new things to draw for the notes.  
Sometimes, he drew stuff that seemed to wreck Bucky's day; when he'd drawn the little periodic table boxes of iodine, lutenium, vanadium, uranium (which spelled I Lu V U), Bucky had spent the day curled up in his armchair by the window, which he hadn't done in a long time.  
Other times, he drew stuff that actually got a reaction out of Bucky. A good reaction. Like the time he drew a one-armed Rosie The Riveter who snarled out of the page and had her middle finger stuck up like a flagpole, and Bucky laughed so loud Steve could hear him in the shower, with the water running.  
On July 1st, Bucky came out of the bathroom, squeaky clean, in boxers. The scars on his legs were just barely visible – tight, shiny patches of pale silvery-purple flesh.  
On July 4th, he woke Steve up at the asscrack of dawn in an Army t-shirt he'd stolen from his dad before going to college and jean shorts, with an apple pie on the kitchen table.  
“Happy birthday, punk,” he said. He looked nervous, hunched in on himself only slightly, shuffling his socked feet on the laminated tile floor.  
Steve launched himself at Bucky and hugged him so tight his spine popped.

August rolled around, muggy and hot. Bucky had taken to wearing sleeveless shirts; on days when it surpassed 100 degrees, he went shirtless.  
Steve had taken to carrying his inhaler in his pocket; the wet, scalding air was hard on his lungs.  
But on the one day of the month that was cool and almost dry, on the tails of a heavy rainstorm, Bucky chucked Steve's camera at him and said, “C'mon. You said you wanted to shoot me, right?”  
Steve spent all of ten minutes taking pictures of Bucky in worn boxers, hair tied up in a lazy bun, before tackling him to the grate of the fire escape and kissing him. _Hard._  
“Hand to hand combat it is,” Bucky said, rolling himself on top of Steve and slinging him over his shoulder. “I win.”  
Steve bit down on the meat of his back, right next to his shoulder blade, and grinned as Bucky threw him down onto the couch. “Jerk.”  
“Punk.”  
Bucky loomed over him, eyes soft, skin sweaty.  
“God, Buck. You know I never thought you were anything but beautiful, right?”  
“I know, Stevie.”

 _It_ was neither of their faults. The wasted time they spent berating themselves for something out of their control, however, was.  
Once again, their lives were split into Before and After, but this time, After definitely was not worse.

**Author's Note:**

> In an effort to keep out of copyrighted material:  
> Model Monsters = Model Mayhem, which is a pretty good site for beginning models and photographers and stuff like that  
> Froot of the Loom = Fruit of the Loom  
> Onnellinen Kerta = Haagen Dazs, because I always thought Haagen Dazs meant Happy Days; turns out, it's gibberish, so I replaced it with Finnish for happy days.  
> The movie, The Man Without A Past, is a Finnish romcom about a man who loses his memory after a beating; you can find more information here: www.imdb.com/title/tt0311519/


End file.
